PSOH 'Tea Time'
by tigersilver
Summary: The Count debates whether or not he should actually invite the Detective to tea. It seems so...inviting a prospect, he's not certain if he should indulge.


PSOH Snapshots & Snippets

'Tea Time'

His detective was back again.

But, really, he should stop thinking of the man as 'his'. The blonde LAPD officer was simply very persistent, like a bulldog…or perhaps he was merely ambitious, seeking evidence to cement some trumped-up, purely imaginary charge against a simple Chinese Pet Shop manager.

Not that his detective would be able to accomplish that. He'd have to work very hard indeed to dig up any connection between the Count and those 'crimes' he found so puzzling.

The Count smiled, sweetly, secretively, into his Sevres teacup before he set it down. Reaching forward, he calmly poured a second cup of jasmine Oolong and handed it to the man, who had finally perched on his couch after prowling nosily around his Parlor.

"Thanks," the officer said gruffly. He gestured to the white cardboard container he'd brought with him, which he'd slid surreptitiously onto the tea table when he first arrived. His arrival had sent scurrying a young couple seeking a Pet as a substitute for the baby they would never have.

"Here, have some. Madame said you like these."

Madame had been quite willing to tell Leon all about the Count, in fact; all his likes and dislikes, his odd fancies – but only when it came to sweets.

"Oh....thank you for the lovely treat, Detective." The Count simpered and gave him a melting look and the young man nearly dropped his cup.

_Very nice_. They had graduated to bribery now. The detective must really be serious about this. The Count lifted his cup again gracefully and gazed with searching, mismatched eyes at his visitor. The policeman had come to see him only two days ago – what could have brought him back so soon?

"So, how may I assist you today?"

He could think of nothing 'suspicious' happening recently. Actually, his Shop had been very quiet of late, after that sudden rush of unfortunate clientele. The poor actor, Robin, and the greedy little girl who wanted lovebirds. But several of his client's purchases had ended quite happily, really. There should be no cause for this constant surveillance on the part of L.A.'s 'men in blue'.

Well, actually, _one_ man. And he wore jeans and T-shirts with odd sayings on them, not a proper uniform at all.

_This _officer was very impatient …and inquisitive. Very determined, judging by that strong jaw. A pleasant change from wishy-washy people who didn't seem to know what they wanted when they wished for it, the Count mused with an inner smirk. But, still, the poor man must be wearing himself out, coming here so often.

And what could _he _do to help soothe this impatient young man? A Pet perhaps? Maybe a nice pussycat? Esmeralda would surely whip him into shape. Or a faithful dog instead, like the one he'd sold that young woman, a guarding, adoring creature who would keep an eye out for his detective's welfare. Being a detective in Los Angeles must be dangerous. Even in the peace and quiet of his Shop he'd heard the sirens—harbingers of disaster happening to some poor soul somewhere in this sprawling metropolis.

The Count blinked, a little surprised at himself. He really shouldn't be thinking about that aspect of his visitor's life. There were plenty of people with dangerous jobs.

Shrugging, he set his cooling tea back down again and reached for the white box, fully expecting to find the miniature éclairs he so often purchased from Madame.

"May I offer you one, Detective?"

He opened the container, slitting the white string with a razor-sharp nail. Oh, _Danish_! Not inspired, perhaps, but still very welcome.

"No. I'm good, thanks."

The Detective looked away, having just been caught gazing transfixed as the Count handled the pastries with delicate, loving fingers. He flushed, obviously embarrassed.

_How sweet_. He so enjoyed rattling this man.

A bite, redolent of sugared fruit and tender buttery pastry. _Delicious_. The Count frowned, considering, mouth full, the tart sweetness of the cherry filling making his tongue tingle delightfully. They normally didn't taste quite _this_ good.

"Something wrong, Count D? You don't like them?" The blonde man whipped his head around, concerned, lines of worry visiting his tanned face. He shifted forward, expectant, and examined the Count's face carefully for signs of dissatisfaction. The Count finished chewing and swallowed, feeling guilty for no reason at all.

"No, no! It's delicious! The cherry, this drizzle of sugar shell – no, _really_. I quite enjoy them. Thank you again."

"Good." The tips of the man's well-shaped ears were red. He looked down at his scuffed sneakers immediately.

"So, Detective, how may I help? You must have some reason for visiting my humble Shop today." He regarded the policeman over the edge of his cup, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

"No. Um, no. But, well, I've been wondering…how come your customers always leave when I stop by?"

The Detective gazed around him, obviously noting the lack of Pet-purchasing people and then finally turned back, to meet D's eyes. He seemed skeptical again, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as though he didn't quite buy the fact that the Count actually sold Pets.

The Count gazed back, obviously innocent of any wrong-doing, and finally his mouth curved in what may have been a taunting smile.

"Perhaps they require _privacy_, Detective. Choosing a companion in life can be a very difficult endeavor, you know."

The Detective stared at him, blue eyes gone wide with some sudden emotion, lips faintly parted. He nodded, slowly.

"Yeah…I _know_."

For some strange reason the Count could not tear his own eyes away. The Detective's gaze was very blue, like the sea off the Normandy coast perhaps, or the sky above Amsterdam in the early evening. It drew him in, and he felt momentarily dizzy, as though he were falling from some great height.

He shook his head slightly, breaking the odd connection, and looked determinedly down at the box. Perhaps a half-dozen Danish remained there. He'd eat them later, perhaps…savor them after his evening meal.

"Well, I should get going," the Detective out his barely touched cup of tea down with a slight clatter and rose abruptly, as if he couldn't wait to leave.

"Thanks for the tea, Count. See you around!" Detective Orcot was at the door already, one foot out of the Shop, a long-fingered hand gripping the wrought-iron gate as he looked back at his erstwhile host. The Count looked up from the box, his gaze even and dispassionate.

"Soon, I'm sure," he murmured in a low voice. It may or may not have promised he would be waiting.

"Very well, Detective. Have a pleasant day," the Count replied, loud enough for the policeman to hear him this time.

A jaunty wave and the man was gone, his straggly ponytail and broad shoulders the last the Count could see of him as he disappeared down the sidewalk. No doubt he'd be seeing him again, sometime soon.

The Count sighed, and began to gather up the soiled tea things. He was oddly unsettled now, and he rather wished this last visit had not been so short.

So rude, these Americans. No innate courtesy, nor understanding of the concept of a 'call.' His detective might have stayed a little longer…if he wished. The Count would have found it pleasant to speak with someone new, although certainly he didn't lack for companions. The detective had a very sharp mind, often hidden by the guise of bravado and foul language, and he could be quite an engaging conversationalist when he forgot the Count was supposed to be a suspect. Pity he'd had to leave so soon.

Perhaps, next time, he would actually _invite_ his detective to partake of tea.


End file.
